


On a Pedestal

by Goldenrayofsunshine



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angry TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Angst, Canon Compliant, Catharsis, Claustrophobia, Drabble, Gen, Heroism, Hopeful Ending, Injured TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Light Angst, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Sam | Awesamdude, Mentioned Toby Smith | Tubbo, Mentioned Wilbur Soot, Pandora's Vault Prison, Past Abuse, Resentment, Revived Tommyinnit, Scared TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Short One Shot, TommyInnit Has PTSD (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Needs a Break (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Traumatized Tommyinnit (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), make the white hair streak canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29923458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldenrayofsunshine/pseuds/Goldenrayofsunshine
Summary: Statues are for heroes, and heroes don't survive.He’ll never be that happy again. The memorials remind him of being dead, of timeless months he’s spent in a colorless lukewarm void. And of dying, unforgiving fists beating him into the cruel obsidian. “You, you think you’re better than me? Just ‘cause you’re big?” He steps onto the plinth. His ankles are like tree trunks. “Remember I’m the biggest man around.”Who built this? Will they be angry if he takes it down?***Tommy is resurrected from his own personal hell and finds the memorials his friends have built for him. He has mixed feelings.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 137
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	On a Pedestal

Statues are for heroes, and heroes don’t survive. The figure stands atop his house, and Tommy only comes up to the shoes’ treads. He feels like it’s going to step on him. “Hey, what’re you looking at? Bitch.”

He’ll never be that happy again. The memorials remind him of being dead, of timeless months he’s spent in a colorless lukewarm void. And of dying, unforgiving fists beating him into the cruel obsidian. “You, you think you’re better than me? Just ‘cause you’re big?” He steps onto the plinth. His ankles are like tree trunks. “Remember I’m the biggest man around.”  _ Who built this? Will they be angry if he takes it down?  _

This is his house. He lives here. His property. People can’t crawl in and build their own shit, just because he happens to be dead. So nothing bad will happen if he cleans up his front yard, right?

But he can’t bring himself to do it, to hack away at his own massive form, to hit and hit and break… 

“Maybe I’ll just move out,” he tells the statue. “Get all my stuff and make a new home. You can have this one.” He looks around. “You and your friend. Why the fuck are there two?” Tommy tries to name two people who care about him.  _ Tubbo. _

He’d thought Sam did. But Sam was the warden. He cared about the prison, and the rules. That was his job. It didn’t make Tommy feel all warm and loved, but it was secure. It was logical, it was important.

_ Also Ranboo. _

But surely if they made something for Tommy they’d make it together. If he ever dies and doesn’t come back, he hopes his best friends will take care of each other. Someone’s gotta. He extends his hand toward the second statue. It has his discs. “I don’t want people to think I don’t appreciate the gesture. But, but I kind of  _ hate  _ this.”

_ Trapped, afraid, locked in a dark and claustrophobic box that made his brain itch in a million different ways.  _ Hadn’t he called for help? Hadn’t he begged? Yeah, he’d shouted every name he knew and still no one came. What are these gaudy statues now but a mockery of his broken trust? A useless pity offering?

He didn’t fall for shit. Dream had worn away at him, told him nobody cared, threatened his friends. Had said Tommy would never be free of him. Claimed moral relativism, that everyone’s evil to someone.

Of course Tommy was stronger than that. He knows Dream is pure evil. He knows he deserves better. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve statues.

As long as he remembered the truth he wouldn’t be hurt. He would stay himself; he wouldn’t fall for Dream’s manipulations.  _ “I’m not scared of you,”  _ he’d told the monster in his closet,  _ “You’re not even real.” _

“Okay,” Dream had said, and then beaten him to death.

He shudders. There is so much to be afraid of in the world, and bravery is just another form of lying. “Fuck you, bitch,” he tells the disc statue, “You shouldn’t be smiling.” It’s a former version of himself, the metallic skin is baby-smooth, no dueling scars. He barely remembers being that young. He wonders why this is the iteration they’ve chosen to honor: a boy who’s not yet done any of his great heroic acts. Maybe because now he’s damaged and flinchy in a way that will never heal. Even alive, he’s worse than he was before. More broken.

He’d wanted to step out of the prison into a snapshot world left frozen in time. The statues remind him every instant that he isn’t happily folded into the past. Amidst the changes, every little thing that’s stayed the same is a comfort. The carrots in his garden, his bed with the unmade sheets. He’ll crawl inside, cocooned in his familiar smell, and pretend none of it ever happened. But the giant looms over him like a headstone obelisk, and he can’t sleep in his own grave. “You have to come down,” he threatens, “I’ll take you down. I’ll blow you up. I’ll rip you off your pedestal and sink you in the river.”

One of his statues wears a revolutionary’s cap, the war uniform of a defunct nation. He hates to think about it. There’s a plaque at his doorstep engraved with his death date, and March, March 1st is forever going to be a difficult anniversary. He pulls at the shriveled white hairs that have grown up wiry in his blond. He’s way, way too young for this. Makes him feel like a geriatric when he remembers the history.

His head throbs. After the sensory deprivation of the afterlife, every color is too bright and regular silence has a hum. Also, Dream’s assault knocked something out of place behind his right eye. Ever after he’ll get migraines. “I didn’t want to be a hero. I swear.” He rubs his shiny black socket. He hates the rewards. Heroes die horribly and painfully and then everyone tells the story like it was for the best.

“You don’t even look like me.” He’s thinner, less muscular, gaunt, even. His chin is cleft. His hair is overgrown and there’s a ragged scar across his neck. He squints at the statues with cloudy gray eyes. They are impostors. They are almost him but not quite.  _ What he could be, would be, wants to be.  _ Unharmed. Happy. He just feels worse in comparison.

With a cry, he raises his pickaxe and swings it into False Tommy’s heel. The concrete cracks, shedding chips and dust. He screams and swears and tears run down his cheeks and he channels all his rage into physical strength. He breaks the other leg, and goliath comes crashing down, shattering to pieces in his front garden. Only a massive pair of sneaker-clad feet remain glued to the plinth. He thinks of a poem his now-dead brother liked to whisper, a king called Ozymandias. All monuments fall eventually. Tommy will tear out his legacy on his own terms.

**Author's Note:**

> If I died and came back and found out someone had built multiple 50 ft tall statues of me on and around my home I would be very upset.
> 
> comments absolutely make my day <33
> 
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> 
> PREDICTED CANON BECAME POWERFUL


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